


Travelling by an Indirect Route

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief meeting between Sherlock (officially dead) and Mycroft (deadly officious).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Travelling by an Indirect Route

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Squishy for the Rantmas fic exchange. Happy New Year!

There were very few airports that Mycroft cared for from an aesthetic point of view, and Kiev Boryspil International Airport was not one of them. Still, what it lacked in charm it made up for in convenience. An increasing number of routes went through it on the way to eastern Europe, making it a plausible place to stop for a couple of hours, and years of catering for a certain type of business man had provided it with several nearby hotels which made a point of not asking superfluous questions. 

By dint of feigning chivalry and ceding his place in the queue to two women behind him, Mycroft contrived to take the third available taxi. He directed the driver to drive in the direction of the city centre and pulled out his phone.

“Orwell,” said Mycroft without preamble as soon as the other person answered.

“You took your time. I’m in room sixty-three.” Sherlock named a nearby hotel before hanging up. 

Mycroft gave the address to the driver and sat back in his seat. The Ukrainian landscape unfurled reluctantly through the window, barely warmed by the thin grey January light. He thought, idly, that it seemed to have been winter for a very long time.

…

The hotel was corporate and utterly forgettable. Mycroft registered at reception, took his key and ignored it in favour of going straight to Sherlock’s room.

No need for theatrics - a simple knock sufficed. There was a brief flicker at the peep-hole before the door opened, Sherlock ducking straight back into the room so that he couldn’t be seen from the corridor. Mycroft followed, closing the door behind him, and took a thick manila folder out of the front pocket of his slim wheeled suitcase. 

“Here.” He held it out to Sherlock, who snatched it from his hand and retreated to the bed to study the contents.

Mycroft sat down in the only chair and helped himself to a small bottle of water from the mini-bar. As was his habit during these rendezvous, he took the opportunity to look Sherlock over as subtly as he could manage.

Sherlock looked reasonably healthy and his clothes were clean. During the first few months of his exile he had run himself into the ground, forsaking food and sleep in his desperation to solve the case. Once it had become apparent that this was going to be a rather longer-term endeavour than he had initially envisaged, he had started to take better care of himself.

The hair was rather horrible, though.

“How was Tbilisi?” asked Sherlock without looking up. He was sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, pages of highly confidential information spread out before him like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Hospitable.” Mycroft scrutinised the pattern of bruising on Sherlock’s neck. “I see that Romania was rather less so.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Within acceptable parameters.” He dug a memory stick out of his back pocket and tossed it at Mycroft. “I trust you’ll take care of the clean-up.”

Of course he would. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

…

An hour later they had finished exchanging information and it was time for Mycroft to leave. 

“Do you need anything?” he said as he got up.

Sherlock nodded and leaned back against the headboard. He looked tired. “I’ve given you a list. I’ll be in Rome next week.”

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the desk. “I can’t come,” he said at last. Too many unscheduled journeys risked drawing unwelcome attention, and it wouldn’t be him that suffered for it. “But I’ll send someone that I trust.” 

“And I’ll need a book.”

Mycroft rummaged around in his case until he pulled out a gaudy paperback. He made a mental note of the ISBN number before handing it over.

“The traditional Christmas spy novel from Aunt Meredith,” said Sherlock, smiling slightly as he turned the book over in his hands. “She never sends me anything, you know.”

This was as close as Sherlock ever got to asking after the friends and family he’d left behind him. “You did poison her. Twice.”

“Youthful high spirits - she was fine the next day. How is the old tyrant?”

“Dead.”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked away and it was clear from the tension in his shoulders that he was thinking of all that he had missed and lost.

Mycroft sighed. “There’s no need to be maudlin. She died seven years ago, Sherlock. I dragged you to the funeral and you slipped out early to interrogate the groundskeeper about grave disturbances.”

“Ah.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “It was a very dull service.”

“It wasn’t meant to be entertaining.” Mycroft forbore to comment on Sherlock’s own funeral, when he’d had only the barest suspicion that his brother was still alive.

Sherlock’s gaze was thoughtful. “She used to steal the chocolate coins out of your stocking and say it was for your own good because you were too fat, yet you still buy a terrible book each year in memory of her.”

“Habit,” said Mycroft lightly. In memory of the memory, perhaps. He hadn’t particularly cared for their aunt but he did so hate to let traditions lapse.

“Hm.” Sherlock glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “You’ll be late for your flight.”

Mycroft took hold of the handle of his suitcase, tightening his fingers round the curved rubber grip. “Good hunting.” 

Sherlock acknowledged the sentiment with a curt nod and Mycroft headed back to the land of the living.

…

The cabin crew on BA flight 883 had just finished serving out the in-flight meals in business class (complete with muttered complaints about the increasing number of special requests) and were starting on economy when there was a sharp bark of laughter from behind them.

One of the flight attendants walked briskly up the aisle.

“Excuse me sir, is everything alright?”

The passenger was a quiet-looking middle-aged man with thinning auburn hair and an expensive suit. He smiled at her. “Quite alright, thank you. I apologise for the disturbance.”

She glanced at his tray. For some unknown reason he’d filled his plastic coffee cup with gold chocolate coins. They glinted and sparkled under the fluorescent lights.

“Enjoy your meal, sir,” she ventured.

“Thank you. I rather think I will,” he said, picking up a coin and tapping with one perfectly manicured fingernail.

She smiled politely and hurried back to her trolley. Mycroft delicately unpicked the crinkled edge of the foil, savouring the sweet, faintly familiar smell. The chocolate was cheap and gritty. He ate it all anyway.


End file.
